Who Is Anastasia?

When I was 55, I decided to embrace the things I love and hold precious and dear, regardless of anyone else's thoughts and opinion. I am a visual folk artist who loves flowers - my own flowers, grown and/or painted by me.
I love good, hearty, exotic foods, and I love to prepare them myself. I love the secret garden situated in my backyard, regardless of how overgrown and wild it gets. No longer able to afford a vacation, this will have to be it for the time being. In the winter months, I still enjoy it.
Anyway, here I am sharing my art, favorite recipes, cocktails, gardening tips, and just my usual vents and bantering. After all, I'm old enough to say whatever the heck I want to now ...

JEWELS OF MY SOUL

Stacey Torres ART Prints

May 14, 2017

The
Chattel Houses on the Caribbean island of Barbados are a common
sight, often taken for granted by those who reside there and see them
every day. Dating back to “plantation days,” these tiny two room
cottages were designed to be movable and transported when needed.
Approximately 12 x 20 feet, and made of wood (without using any
nails), they were positioned on concrete blocks, stones, or even a
small hill. Sometimes, a small shed could be attached to the back for
a bathroom of sorts.

The
name “Chattel” comes from the French term, for a movable
possession, and therefore, not real estate. Emancipated slaves were
allowed to own homes, but they could not own land. Therefore, they
created these small portable cabins. The owner of the house had to
take it wherever he found work, from one (sugar) plantation to
another, and would rent a small parcel of land for his house from his
employer. If there was a landlord/tenant dispute, the owner of the
house had to leave – and take his house with him. The walls of the
home could be taken apart easily and placed on a flat bed truck, or a
wagon pulled by a mule or horse. Once they reached their new
location, the house could be reassembled as before.

"Aunt Mae's Chattel House," by Stacey Torres

Today,
the island is still dotted with these curious little homes. They have
a simple design of two windows and a center door to the front; and
windows on each side (I'm not certain of the back). The windows were
usually jalousie windows, or have storm shutters, and sometimes just
open with no glass. Many of the houses are on permanent locations now
with foundations, running water and electricity. Some have been
refurbished and fitted to accommodate tourists and/or for commercial
use. However, some of the original older houses are merely lived in
as always.

"Da Neighbor's Goat," by Stacey Torres

"Saturday Morning," by Stacey Torres

Homeowners
were working class people. They took tremendous pride in their homes,
painting them in gorgeous color combinations and using fretwork as
trim that served to give a tiny bit of shade and protect the wooden
structure from weather. There are newer large homes built in the
style of the original Chattel House, but nothing can ever take the
place of these early “tiny homes.” Small, practical and
transportable. The unique style of these sweet little houses are even
more pronounced when you see one or two additions added on. The
original starter house was once called a “One Roof.” If you added
a shed, it was called “One Roof and a Shed.” If you added an
addition, it would be a “Two Roof House and Shed.” The roofs were
typically made of corrugated iron.

"Today Was Catchin' Day" by Stacey Torres

My
maternal family's roots are from this island. I visited there in 1967
when my grandparents went on a pilgrimage back home for their 50th
wedding anniversary. I was fortunate to visit the tiny Chattel House
where my grandfather, Arthur Clement Moore, was born and raised. His
two older sisters and some young cousins were still living there. I
saw their gardens, their goats, their shed. However, they had
graduated to electricity and plumbing by then. Like so many other
Chattel Houses, this one had an addition built onto the back. I often dream of that little house and the garden of peppers and squash, and
the goats that stood guard. It's funny how my memories always take me
back to the gardens of my youth. It
is my ultimate goal to be able to travel back to Barbados someday
soon, to spend some time there finding my people and painting the
beloved Chattel Houses of Bimsha (a nickname of endearment for the
island).

So,
I've been working on a series of beautiful little Chattel Houses, the
way I remember them. These
charming treasures, deep in the history of my people were built and
remain full of pride and love. I'm sharing my heritage with you as
part of my exhibit, "Stacey Torres: Living In Color," May
13 to June 17, at the Henry County Art Center. Commissioned paintings are possible.

March is
Women's History Month. We all hear the usual stories about
trailblazing women who made history doing something considered
remarkable for her time. This has been a tumultuous time for women
these last few years. Along with all of the protests, marches and
cries for equality, justice and respect, much of our own personal
history has been lost in the shuffle.

I think
about the woman my mother and grandmother raised me to be – Strong,
independent, unwavering, faithful, giving and resilient. They taught
me to have my own; to survive and hopefully to not have to worry
about where my meals will come from when I'm 80. Thus, I fine-tune my
craft on a daily basis, padding my nest, and keeping my eagle eyes
clear. In all of this, I am always of the opinion that we get by
giving, and if possible, never lose sight of love, human kindness and
trust. Yes, these qualities still exist.

"Aunt Mattie Whitfield," by Stacey Torres

My Aunt
Mattie was not my real aunt. She was a very close family friend - an
unlikely friendship that began when my mother was in a deadly car
accident in 1949, traveling from Lincoln University in Jefferson
City, MO to Wilberforce University in Ohio. She and several students
were traveling together when they were involved in the collision on
U.S. 40 between Knightstown, IN and New Castle, IN.

When the
ambulance arrived, they refused to take my mother, the lone survivor,
to the hospital because she was black. As she lay bleeding on the
street, a local funeral home offered to transport her to the (Henry
County) hospital in their hearse. Because her family lived a great
distance away in Canada, my mother was alone in a hospital in a small
town where she knew no one -- and where she ultimately knew from
experience, that the color of her skin would alienate her
further.

It was then that she met Mattie Whitfield, an older
local African American woman who sometimes went to the hospital to
volunteer. She would sit with patients, read to them or pray with
them. It was just something she liked to do. Upon learning there was
a young black girl there with no family, she immediately took it upon
herself to take my mother under her wing. In time, she came to love
and care for her until she was healed, and the family could get to
Indiana. At the time, my grandfather worked as a porter for the
Canadian National and Canadian Pacific Railroads. They governed when
he could take time off and when he and the family could travel by
rail outside of Canada. There were no other options.

When my
mother was well enough to leave the hospital, Mattie and her husband,
Herbie, took her home with them where they cared for her further.
They lived in a small white house on South 16th Street by
the railroad tracks. Finally, the family (my grandparents, two aunts
and an uncle) arrived from Canada, and they were embraced by the
Whitfields as well. All of them lived together in their 2-bedroom
home for an additional 6 weeks while Mom continued to recover. They
all worked together to give her their own form of old fashioned
natural “physical therapy” that included salves, massages, prayer
and careful exercise.

This is what strong, clear-thinking
giving women did for each other. I say “women,” because even
though Uncle Herbie was crucial in opening his home too, knowing the
woman that Mrs. Whitfield was, she would have reached out and cared
for my mother – or anyone – whether she knew them or not. Because
that's the quality of humanity she possessed. She had no fear, no
boundaries, no limits; just an abundance of love, compassion and
patience. During this time, in that cramped love-filled house, they
all became “family,” bridging the gap between Indiana and Canada.
Mattie became "Aunt Mattie," and she was a very integral
part of our lives for the next 20 years. But, that's another story
and another painting altogether.

At my parents' wedding (Queens, NY) in 1952, Aunt Mattie is seen in the distance - She was an honored guest.

DISCLOSURE

This policy is valid from 12 February 2010
This blog is a personal blog written and edited by me. This blog accepts forms of cash advertising, sponsorship, paid insertions or other forms of compensation.
This blog abides by word of mouth marketing standards. We believe in honesty of relationship, opinion and identity. The compensation received may influence the advertising content, topics or posts made in this blog. That content, advertising space or post will be clearly identified as paid or sponsored content.
The owner(s) of this blog is not compensated to provide opinion on products, services, websites and various other topics. The views and opinions expressed on this blog are purely the blog owners. If we claim or appear to be experts on a certain topic or product or service area, we will only endorse products or services that we believe, based on our expertise, are worthy of such endorsement. Any product claim, statistic, quote or other representation about a product or service should be verified with the manufacturer or provider.
This blog does contain content which might present a conflict of interest. This content may not always be identified.
To get your own policy, go to http://www.disclosurepolicy.org